


Maybe, Sparrow

by Shoi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 14:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoi/pseuds/Shoi
Summary: Overwatch was not a land of dragons. Overwatch was a kingdom of wolves.





	Maybe, Sparrow

**Author's Note:**

> my piece for the amazing [blackwatch zine](http://blackwatchzine.tumblr.com)! it was such an honor to be a part of this zine. thanks to all the other contributors and especially the two amazing organizers!

Genji suspects that his new colleagues have forgotten that he is no stranger to violence, or to death.

Not in the case of his own injuries, of course. He knows, with a grim and tightly held amusement, that none of them will ever look at him and not remember his ruined body, will never be in his presence without hearing the soft whirring and clicking of metal parts straining against scar-numbed flesh. Not even Jesse, whose surprising gentleness and calm hands have come the closest to soothing the snarling, starving beast that is Genji’s pride. Jesse who doesn’t flinch at the touch of metal fingertips or the brush of carbon-steel against his skin. 

But it grows clearer to him, with each mission, that they have forgotten that, before he was a victim of violence, he was already its accomplice. 

He thinks this while he hovers, somewhere between a crouch and a sprawl, Jesse’s head heavy against his shoulder, his blood warm and pulsing beneath Genji’s flesh hand. 

He thinks of the first _yubitsume_ he ever witnessed, how civil and elegant it had seemed, how the man’s face had twisted only once, only once as the little knife went through the knuckle’s bone. He remembers his father’s stoic face, an expression almost gentle, a parent hearing the begging apologies of a wayward child. He remembers his brother’s hand, hidden behind their backs, grasping at his fingers, and squeezing tightly enough that there was pain. Hanzo had never had a taste for blood. Not as Genji did. Hanzo’s hunger for violence had been carved into his flesh by the force of their upbringing, an ugly scar across a gentle heart. When the finger joint had come free Hanzo’s small shoulders had lifted, rounding, as though expecting a blow from behind. 

Genji’s own thirst was innate, as native to his internal kingdoms as any dragon, as natural as the rain and storm. He had leaned forward to watch, and tasted copper and heat along his palate, in the back of his nose. 

Overwatch was not a land of dragons. Overwatch was a kingdom of wolves. 

When Jesse moans, Genji presses his nose into the tawny hair, and smells the sweat of his exertion. He ignores Reyes, though he can sense the man’s dark eyes on him. 

“How much longer?” he says, picking around the English syllables with cold precision. 

“Too long,” Reyes says, his voice deep and slinking and indifferent. Genji hates him a little most of the time, but never moreso than now, with Jesse insensate in his arms, dying by inches and by slow pints, and Reyes standing away from them both, staring out through the little slitted opening in the door of their temporary shelter. The bullet in Jesse’s gut had been meant for Reyes, which to Genji seems like a metaphor so obvious it is insulting. Probably any bullet Jesse had ever caught – and he has caught several, as he enjoys informing anyone who will listen – should have gone to Reyes instead. But despite the wicked scars on his broad and somber face, none of them ever seem to strike him home. 

The chill in Reyes now kindles the banked fire in Genji’s gut. 

“We cannot afford “too long,” Commander,” he says. 

Reyes looks over and down at him, his eyes easily avoiding any lingering on Jesse’s sad and battered body. 

“I’m aware,” he says. 

“He is dying,” Genji hisses, “for you, Reyes.” 

Reyes blinks very slowly at the venom in Genji’s voice. His expression remains still and unforgiving. 

“I’m aware of that too, Genji,” he says. He turns towards them, folding his arms in a manner that would have seemed defensive on any other man. On him, it is as unreadable as the rest of him. “What do you want me to do about it?” 

Genji cannot immediately find a response to this. He examines a handful, the words that come to him first, words like _hurry_ and _I don’t know_ and similar, but the one he finally chooses, and sets out between them with fury and with precision, is, _“care.”_

And Reyes stares at him in the wake of it, and Genji feels a mean little curl of satisfaction when he sees that the careful indifference is gone from him now, and given way to disbelief, and to something like hurt. They stare at each other in this way for several heartbeats, while Jesse’s own grow slower by the minute. 

“Should I have a breakdown for you, then?” Reyes says at last, his voice cracking just slightly. “Do you want me to cry about it?” When Genji doesn’t answer he goes on, the budding ember of anger tangible now beneath his words, the danger scent of building smoke. “That won’t save him. What’ll save him is action. Fast, calm action. I’ve put out the call for the airlift. I’ve found us shelter. We have water.” 

He steps forward towards them, and then, alarmingly, he crouches directly in front of Genji, his big hands hanging heavily from his bent knees. 

“And,” he says, “I’ve had him permanently partnered with someone who’s fast, and strong, and smart. Someone who cares about his dumb, reckless ass. Someone who puts his welfare first. Someone who can afford to.” His eyes are burning, dark coals lit with fire. “I gave him _you_ , you little shit. And while I appreciate that you’re very, very good at your prime directive, kid, I’m going to have to ask you not to test me on this again. Am I clear?” 

Genji hears his own voice, calm and quiet and lifted in understanding and apology. “Yes. Commander.” 

“Good.” And then to Genji’s surprise he sits down heavily, exhaling a long and tired breath, like an overused blacksmith’s bellows. The fire is gone. In its wake is the razed forest, the tired and dying embers, the curls of fading smoke. He looks at Genji steadily, without rancor, the previous angry outburst folded up and put away neatly, a suit he wears only on the proper occasion. He reaches out and brings one hand down on Jesse’s head, gently ruffling the shaggy hair, and like a tiny miracle Jesse makes the softest of noises, his nose rubbing Genji’s shoulder where the flesh still stretches between metal and wire. 

“He’s not going to die,” Reyes says. His hand drifts, and Genji feels it brush his arm before he draws away. “He’s not going to die, because you’re not gonna let him. Isn’t that right?” 

“No, sir,” Genji says. The words return to him: Your prime directive. Someone who can afford to care. “I am not.” 

“Good,” Reyes repeats, and leans back, letting his eyes drift closed, though Genji knows he is still aware, still fully alert, understands that Reyes’ concern is for both of them, and the mission, and the world. He cannot afford to care about each individual under his command, even a young man with bright brown eyes and a contagious laugh, a young man who would happily take a bullet and more for his Commander. He cannot afford to because Blackwatch is Blackwatch, the out-lands where the dragons go to leave the wolves to their work. But Reyes can keep them together. He can trust that Genji will do what he cannot – that he will love Jesse in all the ways Jesse warrants love. That Genji will protect Jesse for both of them. 

They don’t speak again until the transport arrives, and Jesse is taken by the medics, still beautifully, miraculously alive. And then, it is only a handful of words, spoken over the shoulder, a crooked smile and a reminder that Genji is still capable of humanity, despite the metal and electricity in him now. 

“Thank you, Sparrow,” says Reyes, with relief in his voice, and he disappears into the cockpit without a look back. In his wake, Genji lowers his head in a short bow, Jesse’s blood drying tacky on his fingers. 

_Of course,_ he doesn’t say, and goes to find his seat in the jump before they take off.


End file.
